Chapter 3 #2
We're pulling out of the parking lot when I see him.
Local reporter, Jimmy Fitzpatrick, standing on the sidewalk with a camera. The same guy who’s been writing articles about the fires that suggest Brotherhood involvement without stating it outright. He sees my truck and steps into our path, camera raised.
I brake harder than necessary, and Mira grabs the door handle.
"What are you—"
I'm out of the truck before she finishes the question.
Fitzpatrick is already snapping photos, camera aimed at Mira through the windshield. "Mr. Riley! Is it true the insurance company is investigating the Brotherhood for fraud? Is that why—"
I move. Fast. Marine training and years of firefighting have made me very good at covering ground quickly.
My hand closes around his wrist, and I adjust the angle—not enough to break anything, but enough that his nervous system registers pain. The camera drops.
"Back up." My voice is flat, empty. The part of me that spent years learning how to hurt people efficiently.
"Jesus, man, I'm just—" He tries to pull away, and I increase the pressure slightly. His knees buckle.
"I said back up."
Fitzpatrick scrambles backward the moment I release him, cradling his wrist. I pick up the camera, remove the memory card, pocket it, and hand the camera back.
"Have a good day."
I return to the truck and pull away before he can recover enough to protest. My hands are steady on the wheel, pulse barely elevated. Controlled application of force, nothing excessive, no lasting damage.
Exactly what they taught us in Recon.
Mira is silent for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is carefully neutral. "That was assault."
"That was controlling a situation."
"You hurt him."
"I made sure he understood boundaries. There's a difference." I glance at her. "You uncomfortable?"
"I should be."
"But you're not." I can see it in the way she's looking at me—part calculation, part something else. Fear, maybe. Or interest. Hard to tell which.
She doesn't answer, just stares out the window as we drive toward the harbor.
The silence between us is different now. Heavier. She's seen what I'm capable of, and she's processing what that means for her investigation.
Good. Let her process.
The drive to The Anchor takes fifteen minutes through morning traffic. Mira keeps her attention fixed on the window, and I let her think. Sometimes the best interrogation technique is silence—people fill it with their own doubts and questions, doing the work for you.
The Anchor sits on the southern edge of the harbor, blackened and destroyed. Fire tape surrounds the perimeter, and the smell of smoke hangs heavy despite the ocean breeze.
I park and grab my investigation kit. Mira has her own equipment—camera, notebook, measuring tools. Professional investigator ready to document evidence against us.
We approach the structure in tense silence. Roof collapsed, walls blackened, windows blown out. Adjacent buildings untouched—controlled burn, professional execution.
"Fire started here." I point to the origin area in what used to be the kitchen. "Multiple pour patterns, accelerant used for rapid spread. But look at the burn patterns. Controlled. Deliberate. Whoever set this knew exactly what they were doing."
Mira examines the patterns herself, taking photos, making notes. Thorough work, I'll give her that.
"How long for fire crews to respond?"
"Four minutes. Fast response, but the fire was already well-established."
"Security cameras?"
"Mike had one outside. Fire destroyed it, and the footage was corrupted."
"Convenient."
"Or planned. Someone who knows how to destroy evidence would know to take out cameras first." I watch her work. "You're looking for proof of fraud. You should be looking for proof of targeting."
"I'm looking for the truth."
"No, you're looking for confirmation of what you've already decided."
She straightens, meeting my eyes across the ruined restaurant. "I follow evidence, Mr. Riley. Not assumptions."
"Then follow all of it. Not just the pieces that make us look guilty."
We spend the next hour going through the scene. She asks questions, challenges my conclusions, documents everything. Despite our hostility, she's good at her job. Catches details, thinks critically, doesn't accept my explanations without verification.
Under different circumstances, I might respect that.
Finally, she steps back and surveys the entire scene. "Professional arson. But that doesn't tell us who or why."
"No. It doesn't."
"Could be fraud. Could be targeting. Could be something else."
"But you've already decided it's fraud."
She looks at me, and for the first time, I see a crack in her certainty. "Four fires. Four Brotherhood members. Four insurance payouts. That pattern suggests fraud."
"Or someone systematically attacking us."
"Who would do that?"
"That's what I need to figure out." I close my investigation kit. "Rival trying to move into our territory. Someone with a grudge. Protection racket. Any number of possibilities."
"Or the simplest explanation—insurance fraud."
"The simplest explanation isn't always correct."
We stare at each other over Mike's ruined restaurant. Two investigators with opposing theories, both convinced we're right.
"I'm going to find the truth," Mira says. "Whatever it is."
"So am I." I hold her gaze. "And when I find whoever did this, I'm going to have a very direct conversation about consequences."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." I don't look away. "Someone burned down my brother's restaurant. When I find them, they're going to wish they hadn't."
Something flickers in her eyes—awareness of exactly what kind of man she's dealing with. What I'm capable of. What I'm willing to do.
She should be scared. Part of her probably is.
But there's something else there too. Something that looks almost like interest.
We drive back to Ironside Customs in hostile silence. When I pull into the parking lot, she climbs out without a word.
"Ms. Vaughn."
She pauses, looking back.
"You think we're criminals. I get it. Pattern looks bad, conflict of interest is real, and you're just doing your job.
" I lean forward slightly. "But you're wrong.
And while you're wasting time investigating us, someone is planning their next fire.
When that happens, and more people lose everything they've built, remember that you could have been looking for the real arsonist instead. "
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then turns and walks away.
I watch her leave, then pull out my phone and text Cole.
Me: Investigator still thinks we're running fraud. This is going to get ugly.
Cole: How ugly?
Me: Very. We need strategy. We can figure it out at Church.
Cole: On it.
Someone is burning Brotherhood businesses, and I'm going to find them.
And when I do, they're going to learn what happens when you target the Iron Brotherhood.
I'm about to head back inside when my phone vibrates. Dispatch.
"Structure fire, Harbor Street near the cannery. Heavy smoke visible."
Another one.
I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in—engine roaring to life, pulling out of the lot. Four fires becomes five. The pattern accelerating.
Radio crackles with updates as I weave through traffic. Fully involved. Multiple origin points suspected. Commercial warehouse.
Brotherhood-connected?
Has to be. Five fires, same methodology, same targets. Whoever's doing this isn't stopping.
I hit Harbor Street and smoke column rises black against the morning sky. Mira's hatchback appears in my rearview—she must have heard the call on her scanner. Following me to another scene even though we just parted on hostile terms.
Professional dedication or obsession with proving her fraud theory?
Doesn't matter. We're both about to see another fire.